


Greylag

by Maia_Nebula



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Brief sulking, Casefic (kind of), Gen, John laughs about it, Sherlock forgets to change his name, Wild goose chase
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 07:45:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1183704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maia_Nebula/pseuds/Maia_Nebula
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For <strong>nanodraws</strong>, based on their prompt for the johnlockchallenges’ gift exchange: "<em>Sherlock and John having trouble with a case or something else with them enjoying each other’s company :)</em>"</p><p>----</p><p>“<em>Carlton</em>? Really?”</p><p>Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows in annoyance.<br/>“<em>Holmes</em> would have made me recognizable.”<br/>“Unlike <em>Sherlock</em>, obviously. If you were already changing your last name, why not change your first one as well?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Greylag

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nanodraws](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=nanodraws), [Gbheart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gbheart/gifts).



> My first ever Johnlock Exchange!  
> This one is for **nanodraws** , who requested the following: _Sherlock and John having trouble with a case or something else with them enjoying each other’s company :)_ I went with a G rating and a kind of vague casefic, but I hope you like it.  
>  I would also like to give a shout out to **gbheart** , a wonderful person, writer and beta. Thanks for all your patience and support last year!  
> Now, everyone, please read and review!

“ _Carlton_? Really?”

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows in annoyance.  
“ _Holmes_ would have made me recognizable.”  
“Unlike _Sherlock_ , obviously. If you were already changing your last name, why not change your first one as well?”

The consulting detective huffed and turned around on the sofa, his back to John. Undeterred, the army doctor pressed on.  
“Why not go for, I don’t know, _Charles_? Or _Robert_?” When Sherlock made no move to answer, John smiled and added, “What about _Harry_ , _William_ or simply _John_?”

And though, due to lack of details, he would be unable to blog about the case, John wasn’t really troubled by Sherlock’s momentary lapse in judgment. As the amazing man himself had said, there was always something, and national security and human safety were not at stake. In fact, the case had only been taken on a whim after a week of “BORED!” and screeching midnight sonatas had made John consider somehow throttling Sherlock with the bloody violin.

Admittedly, John hadn’t thought that investigating a missing goose would have held the detective’s attention for long and so he encouraged the man to solve it on his own. When the issue had suddenly complicated (which happened once Sherlock found out the bird had swallowed a precious gemstone), John had reconsidered his level of participation in the case, but Sherlock didn’t want any help by this point, as if the doctor’s involvement might further tangle the problem.

It looked like the man was right, as the case seemed to require all of Sherlock’s expertise and –apparently– disguising abilities. But then the detective had made a terrible mistake: Sherlock almost blew off his cover by off-handedly stating his given name. Fortunately, the detective had been able to somehow pretend he was hiding his real identity behind a well-known name and had allowed the shopkeeper to challenge him on it.

Fourteen hours of steadfast sulk later, the doctor had had it with Sherlock’s attitude. Sure, the detective wasn’t used to being the idiot in the room, but it came with the mistake-making knack humans were naturally endowed with. Maybe Sherlock had been too excited about–

John shook himself. Sherlock never made daft mistakes.

So… Then… Why–

Something was definitely off.

Sherlock hadn’t even bothered answering his mobile phone when Lestrade rang to offer up a murder (read: ask for help solving it), which resulted in John muttering half-truths about Sherlock and private case submissions and his mind palace, or something of the sort. If Sherlock asked to invite Mycroft over for fish and chips, it’d be over.

And so, after a mug of tea –because, although he prepared two, Sherlock ignored his– and a long night of research and thinking, he tugged on his jacket.  
“Let’s go.”

The detective paid no heed.  
“Sherlock. Come on. Up you go.”

John tried pulling him up by his shoulders, but was deftly fought off. He tried again.  
“Sherlock, I’m warning you…”

As the man in question angrily settled on the sofa once more, the doctor sighed and rolled his eyes. He then curled his right index in Sherlock’s hair and pulled.

The expected yelp and immediate compliance made it hard for John not to laugh. Instead, once Sherlock stood, he let go.  
“You _know_ how sensitive my follicles are!”  
“Then be thankful I didn’t pull your hair until you were on your knees.”  
“What do you want?!”  
“I said, ‘let’s go’. We’re going out.”

John got Sherlock’s coat and scarf for him and pushed both into the detective’s clenched hands. Grumpily, Sherlock put them on. Minutes later, they were striding out the flat and into the street.  
“Any idea where we’re going?” The doctor asked, looking sideways at his companion.

Sherlock didn’t answer, but John’s eyes crinkled in amusement as the man followed him anyway. They moved west before turning north briefly and jaywalking across Outer Circle to reach Regent’s Park. Less than 600 meters later, they were in Secret Garden, whence John walked off to a bench and sat down.

The detective stared at the doctor briefly before lifting his chin haughtily and sitting down next to him. Biting the inside of his cheek to avoid smiling, John looked away: it was obvious Sherlock had no idea why they were here, but the detective wasn’t about to ask and he wasn’t about to tell him.

The dawn-coloured sky then drew most of the doctor’s attention, and he felt quite happy to breathe in the frosty air. He’d been cooped up too long with a maddening flatmate and the calming stillness of the spot was welcome. Relaxing his posture slightly, John decided to simply follow the clouds with his eyes.  
  
“John Nash.”

John quirked a brow, puzzled.  
“ _John Nash_?”  
“Yes.”  
“Sounds… Right, in a way.”  
“It is.”

John turned to Sherlock briefly, but the detective seemed focused on the clouds above. The doctor’s gaze moved back to the sky.  
“Well, you do have a weird sort of black-and-white thing going on.”

He could _hear_ Sherlock’s confusion. He shrugged: his brain hurt.  
“ _John Nash_ , right? Sounds like an alright name to me.” He shrugged again. “Plus your monograph on tobacco? Fitting, really.”

The detective sighed, rolled his eyes and looked at John.  
“I’m not planning on saying I’m John Nash, John. He designed this place in 1811.”  
“Ah.”

The doctor didn’t need to look at Sherlock to know he was rolling his eyes in exasperation again. He wondered briefly if, with all of the eye rolling going on, they would both be dizzy shortly.  
“In my defence, Sherlock, you didn’t give me a lot of context to start with.”  
“No context is needed when you can deduce, John.”  
“If so, then what are we doing here at this hour?”

That silenced Sherlock briefly.  
“It wasn’t open to the public until 1928.” Operative word: _briefly_.

Closing his eyes and throwing his head a bit further back, John smiled.  
“Hmm?”  
“It isn’t the only park in London that has some history to it.”  
“That’s very interesting, Sherlock. Do you think I could somehow work this trivia into conversation at the surgery today?”  
“I doubt they’d be interested.”

John opened his eyes: his companion’s voice sounded hurt.  
“I’m sorry you had a dull weekend, mate.”  
“Because now your blog and social life are suffering for it?”  
“No.” The doctor turned and looked at Sherlock, deciding on relying on his instincts and impeccable bedside manner. “Because I know how bored you were last week and because I know how frustrated you must be feeling at the moment. It must be difficult for you.”

When no answer was forthcoming, he looked up again. The sky, before tinged with various colours, was now warmly tinted by the approaching morning sun.  
“I made a mistake.”

The detective’s voice was quiet, but he might as well have yelled.  
“I know.”  
“It was a stupid mistake.”  
“I know. And you fixed it.”  
“I don’t make mistakes.”  
“You do. You forget things and misplace things and break things and assume things.” John frowned before adding, “I’m not sure if you notice the first three, though.”  
“John, you don’t understand.”

The doctor turned and his gaze locked with Sherlock’s.  
“I don’t make mistakes, John. There’s something wrong with me.”  
“I agree.” Somewhat blinded by the dawning light, John couldn’t make out if Sherlock looked relieved or anxious. “You’re human. Just like the rest of us. And there’s something wrong with us all.”

Both men turned to look at the peeking sun.  
“The problem with most of us is that we’re idiots all the time. If you slip now and then, Sherlock, it’s all right.”  
“But I never do.”  
“Yes, you do. Then again, I’m not sure you notice that either. Remember Harry? Remember the awful cabbie? Sebastian’s case and the ‘great game’ we played with Moriarty? Remember The Woman? During every single one of our adventures, mistakes were made.”  
“Mostly by the Yard.” Sherlock said, defensively.

John chuckled.  
“Mostly by the Yard. But, whatever the mistakes, you always solved the case. You always get the answers –and the correct answers, too– when no one else does. Even if you err, you, Sherlock, are the world’s only consulting detective and no one will ever take that from you.”  
“Because I am surrounded by the uniformly unintelligent?” Yet there was a smile in his voice.  
“Precisely.”

Birds, which had been flying sparsely earlier, started filling the sky. As their songs crescendo-ed, Sherlock and John shared a grin.  
“Where?”  
“At Boating Lake.”

In a second, they were off. Sherlock’s long legs gave him the advantage, but John wasn’t far behind and when giggles made them both want to double over from feeling winded, only pure obstinacy allowed them to continue their run.

They reached the location before the sun was fully over the horizon.  
“John, you are–”  
“ _A conductor of light_ or something. Yeah, yeah, I know.”

The giggling restarted and took a couple of minutes to die down.  
“Can you see it?”

But Sherlock was no longer listening. Instead, he was staring straight ahead intensely.

And then he walked slowly to the edge and jumped into the icy water, _on a Greylag goose._

**Case closed.**


End file.
